


wild horses running through your hollow bones

by FrenchTwistResistance



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Angst, Endgame Timeline, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26689867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Just before the gruff old admiral sets off for her final suicide mission, she has some thoughts.
Relationships: Kathryn Janeway/Miral Paris
Comments: 12
Kudos: 13





	wild horses running through your hollow bones

**Author's Note:**

> I’m rewatching Voyager, and it’s got me in my feelings.

Admiral Kathryn Janeway isn’t proud of herself for all this, but she doesn’t feel any particular guilt about it, either.

But her lack of pride and her lack of guilt are probably more deeply tied to her lack of feeling in general than to any moral code she might have once had that would’ve prevented her from engaging in any of the various activities she’s set in motion recently.

She tries to remember what it had felt like (to feel properly, certainly, but also what it had felt like) to have ideals. 

That’s the thing with ideals: It’s easy to remember the upside, the righteousness, the wins. However far away and completely removed from her current reality those victories are to her, they’re easy—both because they’re what everyone in polite society wants to hear about and because they’re the easiest to talk about. Hell, they can be fabricated if need be. One can so easily change the names on an Aesop’s fable.

What she’s trying to access now is what it had felt like to have ideals and feel bad about not living up to them—what it had felt like to make a wrong decision and know it was a wrong decision because of an instinctual, nauseating clenching in her abdomen, her brain and her body rebelling in equal measure against her traitorous, duplicitous heart. 

Id. Ego. Superego. All that 20th-century psychological horseshit.

Back when there used to be unity within herself when she was young and stupid and then back when there used to be warring within herself when she was not so young and coming to terms with how stupid she might actually be. But now she’s old and she knows for a fact she’s stupider than she’s ever been, and there’s a bleak, blank calm about it. 

It’s funny. The older one gets, the stupider one realizes one is, and the less one cares about either. Janeway has had plenty of conversations with other people that confirm her theory of the acceptance of ignorance over time. The more one knows, the less one knows. That’s an accepted fact of accepting the universe.

But she rather suspects she’s doing it wrong. There’s a line she’s crossed somewhere but can’t precisely identify when or why. It’s the line between acceptance and an active leaning in to the fuck-it-all of the unknown.

She feels this way most acutely when she visits Tuvok. Perhaps she’s been too hard on herself when she characterizes herself as not feeling much of anything. Because in those moments with what might as well be the ghost of him, her heart aches with sadness and rage and guilt. And she finds herself in the classic Delta-Quadrant mindset of, “If this is the outcome given the current set of parameters, it objectively couldn’t be worse if I changed one input variable. And if that variable has zero-sum effect, self-destruct might be preferable.”

It’s in those moments with Tuvok and his declining mind that she feels both most like and most alienated from her old self. She’s able to trace every single questionable decision she’d made as Voyager’s captain, and she’s able to justify those decisions, and she’s able to sympathize with that captain, but she’s also able to work backward and recognize the missteps. She’s able to gather up the broken pieces of her crew’s existence and triangulate back to the point of origin, like an arson investigator or a bomb analyst—all shards and char blown in every direction and then gathered back up and sifted through for clues.

Even though the Tuvok she’d known is gone, the husk of him retains some of his aura, and Janeway draws strength from it to be as logical as he would want her to be. But perhaps she applies that logic to situations he wouldn’t deem worthy of further study. He would say this all is a natural progression and it is illogical to dwell on hypothetical different courses of action. And the Janeway that Janeway used to be would probably agree yet research alternatives anyway, out of curiosity, or more likely, a form of self-harm. But the Janeway that Janeway is now has experienced too many consequences of old Janeway’s impulsive but grounded-in-Federation-standard-morality decisions.

There’s a certain logic to what she’s committed to doing. Not a logic Tuvok would approve of probably, she thinks, but a logic nevertheless. It’s a pessimistic logic that supposes any good thing that has happened in this timeline would be just as good or better if certain circumstances were to change. It’s an optimistic logic that supposes any bad thing that has happened in this timeline wouldn’t be so inevitable. She knows above all that it’s a logic of a bitter old woman who has nothing to lose. 

Well, she’s got nothing to lose except for everything. And everything everyone she cares about might care about. She comforts herself thinking about how they all care about the things they care about because it’s what’s in front of them. That’s another thing about maturing and accepting the universe: one will appreciate whatever the universe provides and also get haunted anew by stuff one thought one had already processed. In her abundant, safe admiral life of regrets, her nightmares are about Cardassian prisons and Justin, for some reason. That had been at least three lifetimes ago, and she hardly thinks of it consciously, but her subconscious still likes to chew on it and hurt her about stuff she thought she’d healed from long ago while she sleeps.

At this point, she has no feelings per se, just stimuli and responses. Or perhaps just stimuli and autonomic reactions. Whether the stimulus is external or some internal long-forgotten memory is neither here nor there. It’s all just so much button-pressing.

But that’s not quite right. She’s still analyzing, and she’s still comparing and contrasting, and she’s still wondering, so maybe she is still herself—or as much of herself that’s left. She’s still appreciating whatever the universe provides. It’s always been out of necessity—a clinging to whatever might be grasped—but now, now that she knows several times over in different contexts just how cruel the universe can be even in its infinite provision, that clinging to whatever might be grasped is less about necessity and more about faith.

But now that she’s decided necessity is unnecessary because she’s going to undo it all and everyone will have different sets of whatever’s in front of them, she doesn’t know whether she’s got the time and energy for faith. Faith is nebulous. Faith is the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things unseen. Faith fills in the gaps. Faith is all the things she stumbles to find meaning in for good or ill and can manipulate and extrapolate into her own plot. That’s another thing about getting older and stupider: sometimes the less one knows the more one has the urge to control what one does know.

She isn’t proud of herself for this specifically, but she doesn’t feel any particular guilt about it, either:

Admiral Kathryn Janeway is lying naked on her bed on top of the synthetic silk duvet, and Miral Paris is lying naked beside her, having just rolled off her, and Janeway can tell she’s not sated entirely but is willing to give her a break to catch her breath. 

They’ve been fucking for the last six months or so.

It’s really quite indecent. The admiral doesn’t feel much these days, but when she does, it’s either exquisite pleasure or crippling shame or vague existential torment, and her thing with Miral is the apex of all three.

Naomi Wildman, the first child born on Voyager, is a lieutenant-commander now, first officer of a science vessel in the Gamma quadrant, highly decorated and highly respected. And their relationship has always been so regular and nice and edifying. But Miral is too much like the best and worst parts of both her parents and always has been. And so their relationship has always been rather more volatile. She’s made her way in Starfleet, too, more successfully than either of her parents had, but she’s still got a cavalier way about her and plenty of reprimands in her file to prove it. 

Janeway mentally thumbs through the personnel logs and catalogues what the rest of the Voyager children are up to these days. She hasn’t lost track of a single one of the dozen of them, sends them all birthday cards with tickets to the symphony or pressed flowers and wine vouchers or the PADD ID for hard-to-get books, depending on personality. She knows what they all like and what they all do for a living, even if she’s forgotten their parents’ first names and primary duty stations, which she probably hasn’t. It’s funny what one chooses to remember and what just gets stuck without one’s permission. She’s not sure how this set of information fits into that paradigm, honestly.

Janeway would never have dreamed of touching any of the others and indeed had never thought to indulge Miral’s obvious crush on her until she’d come up with her insane time-travel scheme and needed a co-conspirator. She’d never had few enough scruples to take such advantage. But she’s traded a few scruples in lately in exchange for the kind of courage one needs to be the worst kind of coward, the kind of intrepid coward so scared to face reality that she’ll boldly change it.

It had been easy to seduce her. So easy that she’d felt a pang of regret that she’d never tried the same tactics on her mother. Maybe it would have all been different if she had. Maybe if she’d been with B’Elanna when she’d had the opportunity, she wouldn’t have lost sight of so many things, gotten so jumbled up and pent up and stove up. It’s all these what ifs that grate against the real and now. It’s all these could have beens juxtaposed against the exact could have been that she’s decided on pursuing.

Janeway’s lying there, and Miral’s lying there, and Janeway can hear Miral’s breathing change, knows she’s about to say something. Usually it’s something nasty like, “Don’t get too comfortable; I’m not done with you yet,” or, “Quit huffing and puffing, and get on your hands and knees, old woman.” But this time it’s:

“Would you be doing this crazy shit if my mom had died instead of Seven?” Janeway knows Miral doesn’t know the whole plan, just the parts that require her assistance, but the thought that she’s put enough together to know that it has to do with altering the past and that it’s crazy shit warms Janeway. She’s so smart, just like her mother, and it’s exhilarating to talk to somebody smart even if it’s casually accusatory and derisive pillow talk after sloppy sex.

“No,” Janeway says, automatic and honest.

“I knew it. Fuck you, petaQ,” Miral says as she shoots up, swift and angry. But Janeway grabs her wrist to keep her close, says,

“And the targ I rode in on for good measure. But you’re taking what I said wrong.”

“You sure had a damn quick answer. How was I supposed to take it?”

“I couldn’t reasonably believe you’d wait for me to explain. Maybe I just wanted a fight,” Janeway says. And maybe she does. Maybe she wants the adrenaline of it, the pain of it, the release of it.

Miral is on top of her again, fingers bruising against her hips, mouth at her neck, ready to bite. Miral says,

“You usually do. So…?”

Janeway stares at her. She had really thought Miral kind of got it, kind of got her in ways that other people didn’t. Maybe she’s been fooling herself, ascribing more insight to the woman than she ought, expecting more intuitiveness from her than she ought, thinking Miral’s more of a wildcard than she actually is. Maybe Miral is just another kid born on a starship who doesn’t feel right in her own skin or in her place in the universe who looks for comfort with an older woman she’s always idealized. Miral’s certainly incredibly insightful and intuitive, and she’s definitely a wildcard, so the latter’s probably closest to the truth, but Janeway doesn’t let herself think about that too often. That would make her an old lech. She prefers thinking of herself as merely lonely and pragmatic rather than predatory. But her brain’s on a tangent now and has to actively remember that Miral is asking a question that deserves an answer. Janeway says,

“So. You were there. You know as well as anyone what it was like out there in the last leg of it. If your mother had died instead of Seven, we wouldn’t have gotten home at all; therefore, I wouldn’t be doing this crazy shit. Or. At the very least, I wouldn’t be doing this crazy shit in this quadrant.”

Miral laughs and then thrusts her hips against Janeway’s. Janeway bucks up into her, reaches for her face to bring her closer, thinking the discussion is over and they’ll resume their carnal activities. But Miral swerves just a breath away from her lips and bites her neck, hard. So it’s this tonight, Janeway thinks as her neck and her clit throb in tandem. She likes Klingon foreplay, the possessiveness, the tender violence. But it hadn’t been what she’d expected for the evening, especially with all the talking. Miral rears up and laps at the bite mark with her tongue. She grabs Janeway’s chin and forces eye contact, says,

“You sure do tell yourself a lot of lies.”

“Maybe I can’t really distinguish what’s a lie anymore,” Janeway says.

Miral squeezes her jaw and kisses her. And Janeway kisses back, tasting the iron of her own blood in Miral’s supple mouth. Yes, she likes Klingon foreplay. And then Miral sits up abruptly, slips her hand from her chin to around her throat—not squeezing, just there, ready—and the other is tracing Janeway’s collarbone with one finger. She says,

“I think you can tell the difference just fine. It’s just easier to pretend not to.”

“Is that so?” Janeway says, running her hands over Miral’s taut thighs that are on either side of her hips. Maybe Miral does get it, after all, but likes to rile her up. Maybe that’s another lie she’s telling herself, one she particularly likes.

“In fact, I think it’s just a matter of time before you start hiding your cunning and deviousness behind a crazy-old-lady facade.”

Janeway laughs. She’s three quarters to that already. She knows people already think of her as eccentric. She’s got a good deal of respectability, but there are whispers about what actually went on in the Delta Quadrant—whether her old crew’s too scared of her or too in love with her to divulge the full version, even after all these years. So a pretty short slide into what Miral’s talking about, and it’s not like she hasn’t considered it. It’s better to be crazy than a sentimental old fool.

“So is that your type, then? Crazy old ladies?” Janeway says. Miral’s finger traces down to Janeway’s breasts and skims the tops of them and then down between and then across the undersides. She circles each breast in turn, just the light scrape of fingernail in one circumference and then another. All the while she’s looking at Janeway’s face and humming—probably in mock thought rather than actual thought.

“Yep. On the nosey. The only reason I’m fucking you right now is you didn’t get us back to Earth before Lwaxana Troi died.” She suddenly pinches a nipple, and Janeway hisses, says,

“Was the Daughter of the Fifth House, Holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, Heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed into women?”

“I’ve never known a Betazoid who wasn’t.”

“Fair point,” Janeway says.

Miral dips down and kisses her again, the nipple she’d just pinched still between her fingertips, but now she’s rolling it gently. She moves the hand from Janeway’s throat around to the back of her scalp, latches onto a handful of hair, and settles her body flush against Janeway, sighs into her.

So she’d been wrong initially and instead it’s this tonight, Janeway thinks as she wraps her arms around Miral’s torso, rubs her palms over her back, fingers finding grooves between ribs and pressing into intercostals with just enough pressure to soothingly work out small knots. Sometimes Miral likes it rough and dirty and all Klingon mating ritual nonsense, and sometimes she inexplicably wants to make out interminably—hours of deep, sweet kissing and gentle touching and slow grinding. Janeway prefers the rough and dirty—it’s easier to turn her brain off for that. When they’re just kissing and groping, her mind wanders, and she remembers too much—she remembers long, beautiful nights with Justin and then again with Mark, waking up with whichever fiancé spooning her from behind, her face raw from his five o’clock shadow; she remembers long, awful nights on Voyager tossing and turning with intermittent dreams of a body, any one of a number of bodies she’d desired during those years, pressed against her, the dream visceral and exciting but ultimately not real, waking up unsatisfied and bewildered.

Maybe that’s why Miral likes it. Maybe she knows Janeway’s thought process and likes the psychological game of it—a subtle torture to see if Janeway will finally break and admit that their affair is some shade of wrong. 

Janeway never does break, though. Whatever Miral’s getting out of this, she lets her have it. She figures why not. It won’t be long before this version of the both of them will be annihilated. “Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em,” as they used to say. And also, “You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.” That was also always a favorite old-timey bar phrase that rattles around in her brain sometimes, especially now that she’s decided she can’t stay here and that she’s increasingly sure she hasn’t got a home.


End file.
